


grace in the face of defeat

by youcouldmakealife



Series: in taking it apart [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last fight of Mike’s career, he wins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grace in the face of defeat

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hello, fancy meeting you here. After a long life-related delay, I return with fic, and it's just more of Mike fucking Brouwer. If you haven't read _in taking it apart_ , you obviously won't get this without having read from part one, and for everyone else, welcome to a time jump and misery!
> 
> Warnings at the end.

The last fight of Mike’s career, he wins. Definitively. It’s not a boxing match, there isn’t a countdown or a total knock-out in hockey fights, not unless someone hits his head on the ice, but there’s no doubt Mike managed to beat the shit out of the little upstart from Minnesota, of all fucking places. Mike doesn’t know it’s the last, not when he’s idly checking his mouth for blood in the box, or when he’s back on the bench, his heart having only stopped pounding, because he’s too old for this shit, maybe. He doesn’t realise he’s not tracking until he gets a gentle nudge toward the locker room, then a stronger one when he doesn’t immediately comply, goes through the ImPACT testing like a routine, which it is, near enough.

The bitch of it is that it isn’t a serious concussion. He wasn’t knocked out, he wasn’t brought down, he’s just had his bell rung, is all, even the docs don’t look all that worried. They’ve seen it before, from others and from him. It isn’t even his first minor concussion that year.

Mike deals with the symptoms in waves, the headaches, the nausea, the inability to focus, has dealt with them before, to varying degrees, knows how to wait them out, tunes out of media and lets Liam deal with plumping up his pillows or whatever the fuck he needs to do to play nursemaid, waits for it to pass.

Except it doesn’t pass, and then it doesn’t pass, and it doesn’t pass. 

It never fucking ends.

For the first couple weeks the doctors tell him to be patient, tell him he’s not as resilient as before, practically come out and say “You’re too old for this, Brouwer,” but when the first month passes and Mike’s still prone to ending up hunched over a toilet bowl if he tries to do anything more demanding than staring at his ceiling, when that’s basically all he can do anyway, sleeping more than he’s awake, wringing himself dry every time Liam’s over, just trying to stay out of bed, they get quieter, and during the next road trip the Oilers go on, Mike’s being hustled to a neurologist, and then another, facing MRIs and CAT scans and evaluating looks. 

He’s told to wait out the symptoms, in the end, which he’s been told from the fucking start, told it’s post concussion syndrome, which they’ve known for fucking weeks, handed a prescription for antidepressants, which he has to bite his tongue and take, because bawling out the doctors isn’t going to get him better any faster. He’s not depressed, his head is _broken_ , is all, but he fills the scrip after he’s told it might alleviate the headaches, because Mike would probably kill his mother if it alleviated the headaches, right now, the constant low-grade throb from his temples, the flare-ups that leave him helpless, so sensitive to sound and light and movement that hiding under the covers is the only place he can be, teeth clenched, a cold sweat breaking out no matter how many blankets are piled over him.

*

He’s lucky the team gets in late, delayed by a storm, because when Liam was going to swing by without permission, as per usual, Mike was trying to stay very still, because moving his head even an inch led to pain spreading through his body like wildfire.

As it is, when Liam comes in, Mike’s managed to get out of bed and migrate to the couch, but not much more than that, and Liam greets him with, “You look like shit,” which means he probably looks worse than shit.

Mike doesn’t dignify it with a response, which doesn’t matter to Liam, since he just babbles what’s on his mind regardless, and he comes over the couch, rearranging Mike as it suits him so he can fit too.

“You get tests?” Liam asks, which means someone fucking snitched.

“Hm,” Mike says.

Liam’s quiet. “And?” he prods, after a whole three seconds of blissful silence.

“Told me to wait it out,” Mike says, and Liam hums, makes himself comfortable _on_ Mike, which is just a little too much, Mike dimly aching everywhere and Liam not exactly light, but Mike doesn’t say anything.

*

The symptoms don’t abate while the Oilers play a homestand, and they don’t abate when they play a short trip, and when they return, so Mike is more than expecting the meeting that comes two months after his concussion. It’s in Mulligan’s office and not the GMs, which he guesses is to make him feel more comfortable, and it’d work if Mulligan didn’t scare even him. 

It’s too cramped for who’s there, team doctors, Mulligan, a couple of the assistant coaches, the aforementioned GM. Mulligan tells him they’re not getting rid of him, sounding almost gentle, for him at least, before they lay it down; they can’t keep saying ‘complications’, the media’s speculating, and the team’s antsy, so he’s long term IR so they’ve got some extra room to breathe before the trade deadline, or he retires early so they have some room to breathe before the trade deadline. Either way he’s not staying on the roster. 

It isn’t much of a choice, not really: he lets them put him on the injured reserve, he lets them all flash him concerned, sympathetic looks, he gets the fuck out of there before practice ends because he doesn’t want to be near the ice if he can’t get on it.

He texts Liam to tell him to entertain himself with Morris that night, because Mike’s got medical shit to deal with, and it’s true enough. Wishes he could disappear into the bottom of a bottle to deal with it, but he’s not actually out to make himself worse, whatever anyone thinks, so that rules alcohol out. Rules out TV and reading and any of the music he actually likes, rules out taking it out on a punching bag or doing anything more strenuous than a fast walk. Rules out his entire fucking life, basically, except Liam, and he can’t deal with Liam right now either, not when Liam’s still practically brimming with hope, fucking hurt bambi eyes every time Mike so much as winces, running around trying to make himself of use and just knocking things out of place. He’s trying, but Mike doesn’t have the energy to humor him right now.

Mike’s thirty-seven, old enough to be on the ropes even in full health. The symptoms that were supposed to go away in a week, maybe two, are holding fast. He’s not fucking delusional, he knows he’s done, he knows this is it, but he doesn’t care if they’re just putting him on IR just to cater to his ego, he’s going to take it, because if he’s retired, he goes home, and he gives up, and this becomes just another city he played in, just another city he left. A stay of execution suits him fine.

Another month passes, and nothing gets better. The doctors are starting to look grim, when they see him, not team doctors anymore, Mike shuffled from waiting room to waiting room, neurologist, psychiatrist, sports therapist. He flat out refuses therapy, takes the flat, hard line of management’s mouth as a given, gets sick of people trying to figure out a new way to say, “your guess is as good as mine.” Liam’s looking less hopeful, hell, Liam’s down, his mood and his output, Mike unable to watch a game but still managing the radio in half hour spurts, Liam’s playing messed up, and he’s coddling Mike like he’ll miraculously recover with chicken soup and an extra blanket, like Mike’s got a fucking cold or something, and it’s bad enough to be aching, flat on his back with a pain he can’t hit back, but Liam makes him feel helpless. And Mike won’t be helpless, not for anyone.

It’s when Mike’s facing another migraine head on, knows it’s coming, objects throbbing before his eyes and his skin tight, that Liam lets himself in, doesn’t bother to call when he’s coming over, and he’s been sleeping over at Mike’s as much as not for over a year, but this isn’t his apartment, and Mike isn’t his piece, and Mike’s kept him from seeing the worst of it, but he can feel it coming on in waves.

“What are you doing here?” Mike asks, doesn’t look up from where he’s got his head between his hands, like putting enough pressure on his temples will stave it off. Nothing will, he knows that by now, but he does it anyway.

“We got back today,” Liam says, the sound of his bag on the floor, where he always drops it even though Mike _told_ him to use the laundry room if he was so insistent in leaving his shit all over, a dull sound, but one that shoots through Mike like a physical blow. 

“But why are you _here_?” Mike snaps, presses harder like he’s holding his head in, “who said I wanted you here?”

“Are you feeling okay?” Liam asks, voice close now. “Do you want me to get you something?”

“I want you to stop getting underfoot all the fucking time,” Mike says, low, just because anything more would hurt too much to be worth it. “You make a shitty nurse. You’re a fucking fetus, go play with your little friends and go _away_.”

Liam’s quiet for an uncharacteristically long time. “You want your painkillers?” he asks finally.

“I want you to catch a clue for once,” Mike snaps. “Jesus, do you need me to make it clearer? Do you want me to speak in little words so you can understand?”

“Fine,” Liam says, short. “Be miserable, whatever. I don’t care.”

His voice breaks in the middle. He sounds like a child, because he is one, may not be a teenager anymore but is close enough, playing house, playing nursemaid, playing pretty little trophy. He’s up for free agency this year, he’s good enough to get something worthwhile, instead of playing with a bunch of has-beens and could-have-beens, instead of running around fetching and carrying and getting underfoot of a veteran who can’t even watch a hockey game anymore, let alone play one, the only person in the world who thinks that Mike’s ever getting back onto the ice. 

He’s got something Mike’s never had, that Rogers doesn’t have, that little Morris doesn’t have, he’s got the spark that means he could be a star, in the right situation, with the right line, with the right coaching, he could blow the fuck up. He doesn’t see it, maybe, but there’s no way in hell that management doesn’t, that other teams’ management doesn’t, he’s going to have the market running hot if he doesn’t fuck it up and re-sign with Edmonton, and he would, just to stick around, where Rogers is, where Morris is. Where Mike is. 

The kid’s in love with him, Mike won’t tell himself otherwise, just keeps sticking around even though Mike’s far from a prize. The kid’s in love with him and he’d let that drive his career into the dirt, let Mike drag him down right with him, if need be, would let Mike anchor him underwater. Mike isn’t going to let him do that. He’s fucked things up enough without adding fucking Liam over to his list of sins. 

So when Liam calls the next day, tentatively asking he can come over after practice, like he’s ever asked permission for anything in his life, Mike swallows around a rock in his throat, says, “Yeah, we probably need to talk anyway.”

He’s a fucking cliche, and he’s not proud of it.

He’s gathered some of Liam’s shit up in a burst of energy he’d had that morning, more self-loathing fuelled than anything else, and you’d think it’d fill a box, maybe, but it’s everywhere, Liam’s shirts mixed in with Mike’s because he likes to steal Mike’s shirts and leave his own, and Mike likes his shirts on Liam too much to protest. His games beside Mike’s console, sports and racing and some RPG he’d been obsessed with for the past month, butt right in front of the TV, when Mike couldn’t even focus from across the room. His food in Mike’s kitchen, sugary cereal that rots his teeth and makes Mike gag. Kale in the fridge. Mike prefers spinach, but he makes both anyway because Liam has a strange aversion to spinach but not kale, against all logic. Bananas for his smoothies, the Ipod he’s been looking for a week now under one of Mike’s books he’d picked up and then promptly abandoned the second Mike had to retire for bed at nine like he’s eighty-seven, not thirty-seven. 

*

Liam knocks, a sign that the world has ended, and when Mike lets him in, his eyes catch on the bags right away. 

“We need to talk,” Mike says. It’s probably redundant by now, everything’s scrawled right across the bags on the floor.

Liam swallows, Mike watches the bob of his adam’s apple, the way he licks his lips unconsciously, a nervous tick that Mike’s always been helpless in the face of. “If you’re ending this, just fucking say so,” Liam says, all bravado.

“I’m ending this,” Mike says flatly, and then the bravado’s gone, Liam’s face gone unguarded and hurt. Everything Liam’s ever feeling gets written across his face, and Mike hates it, because he can’t pretend he doesn’t know when he’s hurt him.

“If this about the nursing or whatever,” Liam starts, “I can--”

“This isn’t a debate,” Mike says. “I’m not asking for your input.”

Liam’s face crumples just that little bit more, and Mike looks away so he doesn’t have to face it. “Your stuff’s here,” he says.

“Can’t you tell me what I did?” Liam asks, and that’s the biggest sign he isn’t an adult yet, that he thinks he had to have done something, that he thinks that he’s at _fault_. 

“I’d like my key back too,” Mike says, staring at a spot on the wall, a nick from god knows what.

“Fuck you,” Liam finally chokes out, and now he’s getting it. It’s for the best if he’s angry. Anger cleanses like wildfire. It’s the cleanest thing Mike knows.

He can hear Liam fighting with his key chain, taking too long, shaking hands or blurred vision or whatever the fuck else Mike doesn’t want to think about, Mike can’t think about.

The key ends up on the floor, the bags over Liam’s shoulders, and Mike finally looks him in the eye. He wishes he hadn’t.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Liam says, choked, and as soft as an admission of love, “There’s something broken.”

Mike swallows, looks down at the key on the floor. “Go home, kid,” he says, finally, and for once Liam listens to him, at least as long as it takes for Mike to lock the door behind him.

*

Mike doesn’t get better. There are moments he thinks he might be, when he goes a week without a migraine, when he can focus his eyes enough to read a couple chapters of a book, when he’s got enough energy that he can handle the whole day without wanting to curl up on the nearest horizontal surface. Every time he thinks it’s an improvement, he’ll push too hard, watch TV, go for a jog, and then he’s in the exact same place he started. The doctors stop sounding hopeful. The doctors use words like ‘chronic’ and ‘persistent’, they talk about managing symptoms, alleviating them, not erasing them. They talk about it like it’s all he has to look forward to.

Suddenly Mike figures out why he’s on anti-depressants, beyond the fact they’re supposed he help with the exhaustion and the headaches, not that he’s noticed if they have. Understands why he keeps getting nudged towards a therapist, until he has a fucking impromptu intervention from the team doctors, even if he isn’t their problem, practically begging him to go find a psychologist, sports or otherwise, just to put their minds at ease. He ends up going, because he’s been emotionally blackmailed, and she isn’t horrible and doesn’t run for her life after the first session, in which Mike barely communicates, just takes that as her due, so he guesses she’ll do.

Liam calls him a handful of times, usually late at night, game nights and otherwise, when Rogers or Morris took him out to drown his sorrows, probably, and lost sight of the kid long enough that he’d taken on the self-destructive part of the night. Mike doesn’t pick up, even when it’s three in the morning and he can’t sleep, staring at the ceiling and wishing Liam was letting off heat like a furnace beside him, because it’s a bitter night and he won’t be sleeping anyway.

Doesn’t pick up, deletes any text before looking at it, figuring it’s best to cut off temptation, but he misses the kid, didn’t know how many ways he’d wormed his way into Mike’s life until he finds himself reaching out in the night, making two sandwiches on autopilot, turning the Comedy Network on while doing other things, because Liam liked it in the background, sometimes braying laughter that startled Mike until he realised that Liam had been listening to a stand-up routine with half an ear while Mike had made them dinner. 

It’s hard to keep busy enough to be distracted when he can’t do anything that’d work, can’t find refuge in alcoholism, adrenaline or escapism. He ends up cooking, had always done it, but challenges himself now, tries to lose himself in the repetition of chopping vegetables as finely as he can, in trying to figure out the perfect ratio of spice to sauce. Mke was used to Liam knocking around the kitchen when Mike did this, sitting on a counter and kicking his heels against the drawers, or pressing himself up against Mike so he couldn’t concentrate. At least Mike’s cooking better. He has that, if nothing else.

The months go by. The Oilers fail to qualify for the playoffs yet again, and Mike hears the same regurgitated bullshit every time he goes in to see a doctor, would think they were just trying to bleed him dry except for the fact it’s free and management’s probably pulling strings to shove him to the front of the line. He’d feel guilty if he thought about it. The offseason’s coming up, which is relevant only in that it’s when he’s officially going to retire, and when he usually goes home, but his doctors, all fifteen thousand of them, are urging him to stay local, and he’s not ready to let go of this city quite yet, he doesn’t think.

When free-agent frenzy comes around, the Oilers fail to keep Liam, and the Red Wings snatch him up. It’s a good deal, fair salary, cup contending team, everything that Liam deserves, and would have turned down out of some misguided loyalty, for _love_.

One week later, Mike retires, and pretends not to notice that amidst the slew of texts and calls from former teammates, Liam’s name doesn’t show.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [ tumblr](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/) for this and other OC universes! Come harangue me there!
> 
> Warning for depiction of serious, chronic non life-threatening injury
> 
> I tried to do my due diligence for symptoms of Persistent Post-Concussion Syndrome the best I could, but I may have failed in proper depiction. I'm given to understand that migraines differ considerably per person; all depictions of migraines are derived from my personal experience with chronic migraines.


End file.
